Gyre
by karebear
Summary: "Items that get caught in the gyre usually stay in the gyre, doomed to travel the same path, forever circling in the same waters. But not always." Jowan/Amell.


"In 1992 a shipping container fell overboard on its way from China to the United States, losing 29,000 rubber ducks in the Pacific Ocean.  
2,000 of the ducks were caught up in the North Pacific Gyre, a vortex of currents moving between Japan, Alaska, the Pacific Northwest and the Aleutian Islands.  
**Items that get caught in the gyre usually stay in the gyre, doomed to travel the same path, forever circling in the same waters. But not always**.  
Their paths can be altered by a change in the weather, a storm at sea, a chance encounter with a pod of whales...  
Twenty years after the rubber ducks were lost at sea, they are still arriving on beaches around the world, and the number of ducks in the gyre has decreased.  
**Which means it's possible to break free. Even after years of circling the same waters, it's possible to find a way to shore.**"  
- Touch

A flickering anger burns in the pit of Jowan's stomach, painful and hard, like a rock, or a clenched fist. He stares out at the world with hardened eyes that meet no one else's. He slips through the halls of the Tower like a shadow, moving with the skilled certainty that comes from decades of familiarity. He knows this place better than any of the other apprentices; he has been here longer than any of them, so long that he barely remembers anything before.

He picks up news in rumors and scattered whispers, most of them false, but he can easily discern the truth in the fragmented pieces: the frantic determination with which Irving disappears; the palpable bloodlust of the worst of the templars, recognizable as a frenzied sense of anticipation in the air; the way the older mages avoid contact with the younger apprentices, because today the lie is just too fragile to sustain. Today the atmosphere within the Tower is heavy and tense, full of heightened fear, like a bowstring pulled taught, and Jowan can feel the phantom vibrations, they ring in his head, searing behind his eyelids. It feels like the entire Tower is holding its breath. Even the little kids recognize the nervousness of the older apprentices, who talk with babbling meaninglessness and pointedly refuse to look in his direction. Jowan doesn't mind that. He's used to people not talking to him. Even the ones he calls friends seem to notice him only as an afterthought. He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead and wills the pain to ebb, but if anything, it only intensifies. He ignores it and moves forward, through the darkened, too-quiet hallways into the apprentice dorm that ought to be empty at this hour, when the whole population of the Tower is supposed to be in the chapel, praying for the Maker's mercy or forgiveness or whatever other bullshit. He surprises himself with the strength of his dangerous heresy, even if it's only in his mind. Not that there aren't plenty of mages who rage against the doctrine of the Chantry, but nobody would expect it from him; quiet, forgettable Jowan, who jumps at loud noises and follows the rules.

Even his protests are quiet, he thinks to himself with an ironic smirk creeping at the corner of his mouth. He moves without looking, without seeing. He follows a predestined path, and he knows what he's likely to find, because this is a pattern that repeats itself with sharper, deeper lines that push with more force, increasing the vibrations, making it hurt more. The space between him and her will splinter into shattered glass. He steps into that space anyway.

Rhyanon looks up at him from behind a tangled mess of long blonde hair, come loose from its braid. She is curled up against the wall, tucked into the corner of the bunk, attempting to hide – to retreat inside herself because there is no safe way out. They both understand that; he doesn't bother voicing the knowledge, because she's probably heard it said far too often already today, in too many arrangements of words, in tone and pitch that alter the content from warning to threat to meaningless platitude, and every variation of the words that imply safety and protection would have been overwritten by violent punishment. So Jowan says nothing. Instead, he sits down next to her – on Anders' bunk – and waits. For what, he has no idea. He waits for the pattern to repeat, because he knows he cannot stop it.

Rhyanon breathes in ragged, painful gasps, and this is _new_. Jowan's eyes widen as he forces himself to pull together the pieces: ripped cloth, ripped skin, the darkening shadows of bruises. His fingers cautiously brush over her torn robes and sensitive flesh of the exposed shoulder she doesn't even seem to notice; they come away stained red. Rhyanon shivers under his touch. Tears still fall, and she doesn't bother to wipe them away, but she looks at him with new coherence that interrupts the fog of pain, crystallizes it into a familiar knife-sharp anger.

Jowan's face is carefully set, but he is angry too. Hardened and angry and afraid. He holds her silently as she cries. He bites his lip and rage bubbles up inside him but he bottles it because he's good at that. He isn't even sure who he's angry _at_. Not her. Never her. "What happened?" he whispers, not expecting an answer and somehow knowing the answer anyway.

"He promised," Melly whines, as she curls up against him, which is possibly an answer, although not to the question he actually _asked, _and Jowan fumes and holds Rhyanon, helpless and silent. He will not say 'I told you so.' It's the last thing she needs to hear.

"I know," he says simply, instead, because maybe it's almost the same thing. He makes it sound like an apology, which only frustrates and angers him _more. _He isn't angry at her, more like... he's angry _for _her. With her. Angry at the templars who hurt her, and angry at Anders for not thinking about the consequences of his idiotic rebellions, angry at him for not recognizing how closely she follows in his dangerous footsteps, and okay yeah – maybe if he forces himself to admit it, he _is _a little bit angry at Rhyanon too, for throwing away everything in a stupid attempt to protect someone who doesn't want to be protected.

Jowan traces that raw cut – whip lash, he knows damn well, because he knows a lot more than people think. Rhyanon's bare flesh feels hot under his palm. Without thinking, he kisses her. His lips press against the top of her head. He catches his breath, and won't release it; her hair smells like herbs and rain and a thousand other things he can't even _remember_.

He waits for her to push him away, but she only starts crying again, deep heaving sobs that make her whole body shake, and she grabs him, so tightly that it hurts. Her fingernails scratch against his arm, and he flinches, but he won't let go and he won't let her let go either. She squirms in his arms, with a desperate, choking whimper, and he silences her with another kiss, running his thumb down her jawline, gently brushing his lips over hers. She breathes, a long exhalation, and she rests still against his body, briefly. He lets his eyes drift closed and he is _aware _of her as he never has been before; all the swirls and spikes of color and feeling that make up who she is. He closes his eyes, concentrates, and struggles to pull enough mana to channel into even a simple healing spell. It's not what he's good at - he's not good at _anything_, whisper the voices of doubt in his mind – but he is able to grasp onto a few flickering tendrils of potential. His heart rate speeds up as he sends that energy into Rhyanon's body, pressed so close to his. In that instant of connection he barely feels like they are separate people. He can feel her pain, her fear, the aching emptiness that makes her stomach clench, and makes his stomach hurt as it vibrates along the resonant frequency. He licks his lips and breathes a few ghost words that sound like nonsense but are simply as close as he can come to expressing that he _understands. _The Circle is killing her; killing them. He's afraid to tell her. He's afraid to admit it, even to himself.

Rhyanon hisses at the intrusion of his magic and pushes back, her palm flat against his chest; she shoves him away. Her eyes flash and she bites her lip with that same familiar stubborn refusal to back down that he recognizes all too well. Jowan's dark hair falls into his eyes in a tangled heap; in this unguarded moment they are both vulnerable to the loss of control they have been warned against for years, decades. In this unguarded moment, neither of them care.

"He _promised_," Rhyanon demands, again, and Jowan can't help himself, he smiles, a thin-lipped sarcastic recognition of the absurdity of the situation; the way she still thinks things will change just because she _says so_.

He sighs. He can't remember what it's like to feel much of anything: hope or fear beyond the constant heavy pressure of the Tower's grey stone walls. He can't remember what it's like to believe in a promise; even one known to be false, like Anders promise that he wouldn't leave or wouldn't let anything happen to her. He closes his eyes and wills himself to reach back – to think and remember: Anders' teasing laugh, Rhyanon's shy smile, and the way her hand had felt; her fingers wrapped around his, warm and soft, back when they were kids, and a pinky swear was good enough, back when they could still pretend that they were allowed to make promises.

He reaches out before he can stop himself, and takes her hand. It still feels warm and soft, her fingers still fit in his. He squeezes gently, and she squeezes back. "Jowan," Rhyanon murmurs, and the desperation in her tone makes him flinch, makes it hard to breathe. His chest constricts, he manages to expel the tension in a choking cough. Rhyanon pulls away, curls up, wraps her hands around her knees. She won't look at him.

He kneels, resting his hands on his knees. He can feel the mattress beneath him, uncomfortably thin, with scratchy, threadbare sheets that they both should have outgrown. He can feel the empty space between them: a small gap, reaching out to him, determined to close itself, but the universe can't fix itself; it needs people to do that for it, it needs humans to communicate, to connect, to close the gaps, to fix the breaks. So Jowan reaches out and traces his thumb along Rhyanon's cheek.

Her breathing grows louder; so does her heartbeat. He continues tracing his touch along the gentle curves of her body; cheek, neck, shoulder... she flinches when he hits that raw wound, and looks up. Her eyes are wet with unshed tears – they seem to make that blue color brighter. "Hey," he whispers. He wraps her up in a tight hug. "You're okay," he says, although it isn't true.

He knows she's a better healer than he is, but she doesn't seem to _want _to heal herself right now. She doesn't protest as he sends what little flickers of power he can across her skin, coaxing her body into knitting itself back together. There's nothing he can do about the scar that will be left behind, not by himself, but at least it might not hurt any more, not on the outside, where he can help. He already knows he can't stop her from hurting on the inside; he can feel the bottomless darkness inside her, reflecting inside him. She tries to push it outward, but he recognizes the silence when the hurt inside pulls you deeper. "It's not your fault," he whispers.

Rhyanon shoves him away, hard, and screams out an overwhelming yelling cry, like a little kid. She punches him, over and over, and although it hurts and Jowan tries to grab her, she keeps fighting her way out of his grasp, and he can't bring himself to hurt her, not even to protect her.

"Fuck you!" she screams. Of _course _it isn't her fault. He shouldn't even feel the need to say it. She slams her fists into the soft flesh of his body, knowing she's better at fighting than he is, she's practiced more, they've _made _her practice more, because she's good at it. She's good at hurting people, and her anger is a dangerous tool, but one that's too _valuable _to waste.

"Dammit, Rhyanon, this isn't _fair_!" Jowan snaps. His voice sounds just slightly strained, and he doesn't cover his wince nearly as well as he might've thought. Rhyanon bites her lip and turns away, to scratch her fingernail at the rough, scratched wood of Anders' bed beneath her.

Jowan rolls his shoulder and shakes off the physical evidence of Rhyanon's impotent fury, as easily as he'd shaken off the damage caused by everyone else who had picked him as an easy target for their violent outbursts over the years. He imagines that his yelling has cut through to her, maybe just a little. She's shut down again, anyway. He recognizes the panicked cutting-off of connection, the sudden withdrawal. It is one of the first things they learn how to do, one of the lessons that sticks.

He closes his eyes, concentrates on his breathing. From there, he can reach out again, slower, more carefully. He can feel someone watching him. He looks over his shoulder, his eyes sliding nervously away from the armored templar lurking in the doorway of the dorm. No eye contact. No reaching out. No touch of any kind.

"Is she... okay?" the templar asks, and Jowan balks. His eyes narrow, and he slides off of the bunk to put himself between Rhyanon and the un-helmeted young templar, the one he's seen watching her, the one with red hair and brown eyes that reflect real concern.

"It's none of your business," Jowan growls. He knows he shouldn't, he is inviting attention and that is dangerous. But Rhyanon isn't the only one who occasionally needs an outlet to bleed away bottled-up anger. The templar seems to understand. He eventually walks away, after a long, tense moment. Jowan exhales slowly. Rhyanon relaxes.

Jowan can feel her tension and fear, not disappearing, but ebbing away. He sees it in colors, feels the ripples and waves. People think he barely qualifies as a mage, because his ability to reach out and manipulate the world is so incredibly weak. But he can _feel _the pressing of the Fade, sees shades and patterns that there are no words for, even if anyone wanted to listen. Sometimes, he tries to pretend that Rhyanon might want to listen; but she's impatient, violent. Like _him_, all impulsivity and anger; slamming against the cage that holds them. She's chased after him since she first got here, and Jowan has never tried to stop her. He's only been there to pick up the pieces.

He sits down next to her again and wraps his arm around her, so quietly that neither of them notice that this response is anything but natural. It feels safe, just for a second. It's a comforting illusion that maybe, just maybe, he can will into being something true.

Rhyanon rests her head on his shoulder, and he strokes her back in gentle circles. He holds his breath and waits for her to push him away again, tell him to stop – but she doesn't. She clings to him instead, not listlessly but with furious determination. Her fingers dig into the back of his neck; with her other hand, she tugs at his robes, pulling at where his tunic loosens. She begins peeling that clothing away, seeking heat and contact, skin to skin, seeking comfort, understanding, a way to forget... Jowan pulls her closer too. His head hurts, spiking with pain, resonating with phantom vibrations as she gets closer and pushes harder. It hurts like a jagged cut, ripples of color that tastes like blood. He can _hear _her, feel her... her pain, his, Anders' too, he's part of this, they have always been tied together. Their connections reflect back and intensify, a triangle, a snare... Jowan gulps down a massive swallow of air. "I'm not the one you want," he protests, but Rhyanon doesn't seem to hear him, or care, and he's so broken and desperate and weak that he can't find it in him to repeat it or make her understand.

He fumbles with his robes; he keeps _waiting, _for her to pull away, tell him to stop – but she doesn't. She still doesn't.

Instead, she pulls off her robes, and with the bloodstained cloth tossed away she looks new, and he feels a burst of hope even through the pain. He seeks, with uncertain movements, along her naked body. His breathing quickens and he feels himself hardening. She shakes beneath his touch, and squirms. "Rhyanon, I can.. stop," he breathes, though if he's honest with himself, he isn't at all sure that he can. She shakes her head and reaches out – before she can stop herself. Her fingers brush across the tip of his penis, sending an electric thrill up his spine. He groans and pushes against her hand, urging her to provide him with more of that sensation; more friction and pressure. He gasps as she strokes, up and down, faster and faster as his arm locks around her neck, pulling her down. He kisses her, and her mouth opens to accept his probing tongue. "Rhyanon," he gasps, but she bites down, hard enough to draw blood, and it silences him. He cups her breast, experimentally. It feels firm, yet soft in his hand. She cries softly, burrowing into his shoulder, as his thumb brushes over her hardened nipple. Jowan's head is spinning, but his body knows what to do. Rhyanon whines and takes his wrist and guides his hand between her legs. His slips his fingers into her, and she moans and cries out as he pushes, in and out, faster and faster in response to her rapid breathing and desperate attempts to push back. He swears her skin is hotter than anything else he has ever felt; she is slick and soaking. He can't even think, he swears he is about to explode. He slides into her and she cries again, sudden sound that makes him flinch, but he still can't think. He drives deeper and deeper, harder, faster, seeking relief, dumping pain, fear, frustration, and rage into this motion. Her tears soak his skin, everything is salt and sex and heat.

"Fuck," she breathes, between choking gasps, as he finishes, and recognizes that the spiking pefect line of pain he'd known so well has diffused now, into a dull ache of guilt and uncertainty and fear. He reaches out to gather Rhyanon in his arms again, and as he does so, he sees in her stillness the shadow of the little girl who'd jumped fearlessly into their Circle back when they were small. Back then she'd stared them down with fire in her eyes; now, that fire has been all but stamped out.

"Does it hurt?" he whispers softly, and he's not even sure what he's referring too: the still-raw scar he won't ask about, the virginity he's stolen... Rhyanon shrugs, and Jowan just squeezes her hand. He figures 'I don't know' is as good an answer as any. He burrows his face in his hands and sighs, unable to voice the fear and frustration that is so much a part of their daily life: the pattern that repeats, changeable only in its escalation.

He trembles briefly as he recognizes the soft touch of Rhyanon's fingers on his bare skin – the inside of his wrists, where he can still feel scars that no longer exist, jagged and sharp. "It doesn't hurt," she whispers. "Does it?" She looks up and meets his eyes, and he just shrugs. _I don't know, too._ Yeah. That works.


End file.
